


What's This Business About Jared Padalecki?

by compo67



Series: Photo-Op Verse [6]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Acting, Biracial Character, Drama, Established Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Exes, Female Character of Color, Karaoke, M/M, Modeling, Original Character(s), POV Outsider, Past Relationship(s), Sex Work, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: On Nashville Savine's first booked shoot, a gig modeling a now-extinct clothing line for a now-extinct chain of superstores, the producer and stylist paired her with a male partner. In between shots, Nash learned that her partner had also escaped a small town in the South—Texas to be exact—and that okay, maybe Richardson wasn’t really that small of a town.He had arrived about six months before she had, lived in a two-bedroom apartment with four other starving artists, and preferred to eat boxed macaroni and cheese over ramen.His name was Jensen.Jensen Ackles.[A Photo Op Timestamp, set 1-2 months after the end of Like a Small Boat.]
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Photo-Op Verse [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/255763
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	What's This Business About Jared Padalecki?

Nashville Savine never finds her name on cheesy, personalized tourist souvenirs.

A kitschy hot pink keychain with the name  _ Nashville _ exists somewhere in the world.

She only has to find the damn thing.

Vega stands next to Nashville at the EZFLY SHOPPE in Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. 

Hailing from Russia, Vega (short for Veneragallei, as one does) is above such nonsense. She sees no value in owning a ubiquitous peach keychain with her name emblazoned across it for the low price of $9.95. 

“I don’t know why you keep looking,” Vega mutters, never once pausing her endless scroll through ten different social media apps.

Nashville has visited the city of Nashville only twice in her entire life—once, when her middle school teacher parents decided to go on a bender and for some reason chose Tennessee to do it and subsequently conceived their first and only child, and when her eighth grade class voted to tour the Country Music Hall of Fame for their class trip. 

Such is life growing up in Powderly, Kentucky, a town of eight hundred, about an hour away from the Tennessee border. 

She could, in theory, fly into Nashville International and buy any piece of merchandise with the word  _ Nashville _ plastered on it and call it a day, but that would be cheating.

Standing beside Vega in the SHOPPE, Nashville briefly wonders how they became and have remained friends. Everything about them suggests that they should, in any rational universe, remain indifferent strangers. Vega stands at an elegant five foot eleven in Armani flats, sports naturally and not-so-naturally blonde, shoulder length hair, and markets herself as an up-and-coming Kate-Moss-type in the industry. 

In contrast, Nashville tolerates wearing LB pumps to keep Vega’s sense of superiority in check. It ain’t easy making it as a five foot seven model, but that’s why the good Lord gifted humanity with Clare Sling stilettos. Paired with a belted, navy blue shirt dress she acquired from the Armani shoot last week, Nash thinks about her image. 

How do other people describe her? 

Many agents have said she strongly resembles a young Vanessa Williams, while also playing up the fact that Nash is an entire inch taller than the former Miss America.

At the beginning of her modeling career, Nash attempted dyeing her brown hair blonde. She was going to look like Etta James no matter what it took. It would help her simultaneously stand out and blend in. 

One bad experience with an at-home Bleach’N’Dye kit soured her on the idea forever. 

The three dollar box of harsh chemicals from the A&P was  _ not  _ meant for the hair of a biracial sixteen-year-old girl determined to get the hell  _ out _ of Kentucky.

Nash has done a lot of shit to her hair since that horrible afternoon with the Bleach’N’Dye. Perms. Relaxers. Blowouts. Highlights. Curls. Painful braids.

But she’s never allowed a stylist to dye it. 

“I keep looking because it annoys you,” Nash quips, careful not to topple the precariously balanced rotating display of personalized shot glasses. 

“Hmm.” Vega keeps scrolling. “Have you ever had a coffee enema?”

“...no, I like getting my caffeine the old fashioned way.”

Vega shakes her head and clicks her tongue. “We are late.” 

“By whose standards?” No shot glasses. Nash takes two steps to the left and picks through personalized kazoos. 

“I hate flying,” Vega grumbles, though she would never identify herself as a grumbler. “Are you done?”

“Nnnnnope.” Nash pops the  _ P _ for emphasis. “You’re in the wrong business if you hate flying.”

“Fadia got the Louis job.”

“Good for her.”

“I hate her.”

And there it is—the reason Nash and Vega have been, are, and will continue to be friends. They share precious few things in common. For example, they each drink water and harbor an appreciation for drugstore makeup. They are both human females and breathe oxygen. 

But. 

In an industry full of fake personalities that often encourages superficiality and pits women against each other, Vega tells it like it is. 

She’s a good friend to have in the middle of an ongoing bullshit circus.

Nash gives the kazoo display a careful spin. “The LV job is for hand models. You’re not missing much. Also, why the enema question? Is Adriana giving out free ‘medical’ advice again?” 

Texting something at the speed of light, Vega’s violet eyes assume a laser focus. 

“Hand job.”

“Say what?” 

“The LV job is for hand models,” Vega sighs, pained for having to clarify an extraordinary burden of wit. “Made me think of hand jobs.”

“Oh.”

Nash checks her own phone. They should head to the gate. She doesn’t mind flying, especially when booked in first class, but no one will find her racing to get on a plane. 

From a cascade of notifications, Nash spots a text and a missed call from the same unknown number. She taps the screen of her phone, her recently manicured nails making a satisfying sound on the glass, and pulls up the text first. 

_ Darling, it’s been too long!! I had to change numbers, you know how it is. If you have a minute, call me!! I have **interesting** news and a side project if you’re soooo inclined. ;) Mwah. xoxoxo _

Very few people in Nash’s world of contacts, acquaintances, hangers on, professional networks, or fringe folks texts like this. However, she knows exactly who sent it. 

Vega looks up from her own phone and meets Nash’s eyes. Her exquisitely threaded eyebrows rise. 

“We are late,” Vega snorts, though she’d never admit to snorting anything ever, words  _ or _ substances. 

“We’re on time.” 

Holding her phone, Nash presses the home button and turns it off. She always sets her phone to block read receipts. She can reply later, if she replies at all. But it’s so… random? Not necessarily carefully-worded, but definitely constructed with some thought.  _ Some  _ thought.

“Would you try a coffee enema?” 

“Caffeine makes me jumpy.”

“You had a cappuccino this morning.”

“Decaf.” She tosses her phone back into her purse and fishes out a ten dollar bill. “Let’s get this show on the road.” 

They each grab their carry-on suitcases, gifts from their most recent LV shoot. 

“What are you buying?” Vega snips, and would absolutely own up to being a person who snips—speech, people, places, and things. “And who texted you?” 

Nash hands over her desired purchase to the indifferent cashier at the register and adds a giant bottle of Fiji water to the transaction. The cigarettes behind the counter call out to her like a gospel song of the South. Tobacco. Porch swings. Cicadas. Sweet tea. The flash of a confident smile she hasn’t thought of in a long, long time. 

Cigarettes  _ also _ make her jumpy.

And there’s nowhere to smoke them. 

She avoids the temptation, happy that her main purchase provides the familiar feeling of a cigarette between her lips. 

On their way to the gate, she plays “Mary Had a Little Lamb” for Vega on a “Jenny” kazoo. 

***

To supplement their income, Nash’s parents entered her into a pageant for babies and toddlers at the age of two. It made sense to them at the time. All Nash had to do was stand on stage and blow kisses at the crowd. 

Surely their daughter could handle that and win first place, which included a three hundred dollar cash prize.

Nash cried the entire time she was on stage. 

She cried backstage. She cried on the disappointing car ride home. She cried as her father tucked her into bed for the night. 

Naturally, her parents then turned their focus to modeling. It made sense to them at the time, definitely more so than pageantry. All Nash had to do was sit on a set and smile at the camera. 

Surely their daughter could handle that and bring home a paycheck, which included a fifty dollar signing bonus with the agency. 

Nash… breezed right through the first shoot. 

She smiled. She beamed. She laughed. She showed off her dimples and bright blue eyes. The entire crew on set blessed her with the Vanessa Williams comparison that would follow her for the rest of her life.

Delighted, her parents signed the contract, and with the fifty dollar bonus, bought concert tickets to see Air Supply in Bowling Green.

Everyone in Powderly considered Bowling Green the center of civilization. They had an amusement park  _ and _ a J.C. Penney. It was also the home of Nash’s first modeling agency, and she suspects her parents were impressed by the “big city” sophistication in comparison to sleepy old Powderly.

After spending her childhood and early adolescent years being shuttled back and forth between Powderly and Bowling Green, modeling clothes and toys for catalogues, Nash demanded something different. 

She wanted to play baseball.

Her mother warned her she’d break her nose.

Her father warned her she’d have to tolerate the presence of others and refrain from punching any of the boys.

Nash played all throughout middle school and high school. She broke her nose twice over the years—once from being hit in the face with a baseball and once from a sexist boy who she swore threw the first punch. But it all worked out in the end. Her high school team made it to the playoffs twice. 

The summer she turned seventeen, she plotted her escape from Kentucky. 

In retrospect, it was a shitty plan, and not even really a “plan” so much as it was a  _ directive _ : take a bus to Los Angeles. 

And take a bus, she did. It was gross, crowded, overheated, bumpy, and smelled like fifty years of cigarette ash, sweat, and diesel fuel. But she made it and crashed at a friend’s cousin’s sister’s place, where she ate nothing but Cheerios and rice three meals a day.

On her first booked shoot, a gig modeling a now-extinct clothing line for a now-extinct chain of superstores, the producer and stylist paired her with a male partner. 

In between shots, Nash learned that her partner had also escaped a small town in the South—Texas to be exact—and that okay, maybe Richardson wasn’t really  _ that _ small of a town. 

He had arrived about six months before she had, lived in a two-bedroom apartment with four other starving artists, and preferred to eat boxed macaroni and cheese over ramen. 

His name was Jensen.

Jensen Ackles. 

Nashville smiles to herself as she walks through LAX. She’s fairly certain she walked past a movie poster with Jensen’s visage on it. He’s been doing well, at least that’s what she read from the copy of  _ Esquire  _ provided to her on the plane. 

She bets dollars to doughnuts he’s not eating boxed macaroni and cheese anymore. 

Vega bumps her carryon against Nash’s carryon. “Spa?”

“I don’t think we have time.”

“We are early.”

“You said we were late.”

“Now we are early.”

“No coffee enemas, please.”

“That would be a different spa.”

“Good to know.”

Outside, Vega spots the Lincoln Town Car sent to deliver them from LAX to the Hotel Indigo.

Their agent Monica and the producer for this shoot will meet them at Providence for dinner and drinks by eight. The timing worked out well enough that Vega and Nash were able to meet in Atlanta and travel together to LAX. Typically, Nash either flies alone or with one of Monica’s assistants.

However.

A little bit of privacy right now wouldn’t hurt.

In the car, Vega checks her makeup. Nash checks her phone.

Drew must want to talk about Jensen. Aside from one gig they had done while Drew and Jensen were together and a few mutual, professional contacts, Nash has no reason to hear from or deal with someone so desperate to remain relevant.

Nash shoots a text to Aubrey from Givenchy.  _ Ciao, Aubbie. Favor to ask. What’s LaCrD up to these days? _

Within a minute, Aubbie, always a trusted source of information, replies. 

_ Obsessed. Working with B @ PXXXX.  _

B at  _ People _ . Who does Nash know at  _ People _ with the first name B? Brittany moved onto  _ US Weekly _ . Brenda left years ago to pursue a degree in something-or-other at Yale. 

Nash thanks Aubbie and asks for a photo of the day, code for, “ _ What the hell is Drew obsessing over?”  _

Vega nudges Nash. "You going for Natalina's project next year?" 

“No,” Nash answers, glancing up. She meets Vega's cool, calm eyes. “Are you?”

“Perhaps. I need something to replace the Rolex job.” 

“I heard about that. I’m sorry.” 

After a slight nod, Vega turns towards the window for a glimpse at Los Angeles. “These things happen.”

A picture of a dimpled, puppy-eyed, boy-next-door-type fills Nash’s screen with a link to an article published in Variety. Nash goes to click it and continue research—then decides to put her phone away instead. She sits up in her seat. 

“That’s Tomas’ favorite way to bullshit everyone,” Nash says, her tone firm, hands clasped over her lap. “It should  _ not _ happen.” 

The modeling industry changes from season to season, not just in style, but in practice. One season, directors might feel more generous by allowing more input on the shoot overall, higher pay scales, and generous set accommodations. And then the next season, just like that, it’s all gone. Rescinded. Forgotten. No input, worse pay scales, and either cheap or non-existent set accommodations. 

Tomas swung in the latter direction. Very few people enjoy working for the man. He offers plenty of reasons as to why that is when he speaks, because he physically cannot speak to anyone without an air of condescension. Nash estimates that if the Pope himself teleported onto one of Tomas’ sets, Tomas would immediately instruct the Pope on how to talk to God. 

Some models are close, like sorority sisters of a sort. They instantly develop and maintain close-knit personal relationships with each other. They’ll become each other’s late-night confidants, hangover pals, bridesmaids, and BFFs. 

And then there are other models, like Vega and Nash, who purposefully hold everyone at a distance.

Vega glances back at Nash. 

Quietly, she issues a brief yet solid, “Thank you.” 

Their driver delivers them safe and sound to the Hotel Indigo, despite the messy traffic. Nash tips him a fifty, Vega does the same. 

Maybe that’s another reason why they’re friends. Nash has never witnessed Vega stiffing anyone on a tip. 

The Hotel Indigo staff bustle them towards their suites and immediately offer champagne and fresh fruit. Nash checks into room 202 and Vega checks into room 204. Vega accepts the offer of champagne but declines the fruit, while Nash accepts the fruit and asks for water instead of champagne. They agree to reconvene in an hour to make use of a spa nearby before heading out for dinner. 

In the solitude of her suite, Nash flops onto the bed. She stretches and lounges on the blessedly soft mattress in a moment of rest. The emails she needs to send or reply to, the social media accounts she needs to update and manage, and updating her bullet journal—it can all wait for a while.

When she started in this line of work, she did not expect to receive perks or decent accommodations right away. She knew no matter  _ what _ career got her the hell out of Kentucky, it would require paying her dues. Like many professional contacts and acquaintances, Nash supplemented her income at the start with sex work. She tried to make her sex work as strategic as possible, sleeping with those who had connections or a foot in the door already. 

She did allow herself one somewhat steady relationship in those first lean years. Older sex workers and models had encouraged her to find someone reliable as a home base. Not a pimp. Not a fuck boy. Not a straight edge civilian, either. 

Someone understanding and level-headed, in a different-yet-closely-aligned industry to avoid any direct competition or conflict. 

Jensen fit all that criteria and more. 

Nostalgia seeps in and adds a sepia tone to her cascade of memories. She was up-front with Jensen from the start. Open relationship. No judgment. She wouldn’t impose negative judgment on his indulgences with other men and she expected him to do the same with respect to her side hustles. No control. She wouldn’t touch his career and he wouldn’t touch hers. 

Nash prefers to keep people at a distance, especially romantic partners, when she has them. 

Establishing these boundaries at the start remains critical. She might enjoy these three nights at the Hotel Indigo and be damn grateful for it—but there are a few more rungs on the ladder to climb. Getting there requires boundaries.

Still. 

For all the negotiations and agreements she put in place with Jensen, there were so many moments of genuine intimacy in between.

Once, he went out at three in the morning to buy a package of tampons and a box of firecracker popsicles for her. He’d regularly swing by her shoots and sets with cheap coffee, greasy donuts, and a quick kiss. He never fought her on using a condom, instead offering a variety for her to pick and choose, scattering them on the bed like rose petals.

If she took a call from her parents at his place, he’d leave the room. 

Some of the best nights with him were the ones where they’d lounge in whatever bed they had available to them with the most privacy—sans roommates, friends, random scene people. They’d pass a joint back and forth, the two of them slowly melting into each other. Inevitably, stories of their time in the South would tumble out. He’d crack jokes, elbow her into laughing, and rumble words of praise into her ear.

Does he still have that addictive drawl and twang? 

And those eye crinkles.

Oh.

And his _ mother.  _

At least a decade and some change after meeting Jensen’s mother, lying down on a bed in the Hotel Indigo and eating chilled grapes, Nash laughs out loud. 

Holy shit, bless her heart, Donna Ackles is  _ something else. _

Nash sits up and runs a hand through her hair. She takes a deep breath and begins her ritual of settling in. Monica booked the rooms for three nights, long enough to have tonight to decompress, then work on the shoot with Vega for the rest. If the shoot needs another day or two, that won’t be the end of the world. Nash packed clothes for five days into her carry-on. 

If the shoot goes past that, it will threaten the delicate balance of her schedule for the rest of the month.

For the past two years, Monica has pushed Nash to pick somewhere “decent” to call home. 

Her one-bedroom condo in Jericho, a single optimistic hour from Manhattan, apparently doesn’t qualify as “decent.” She already pays eighteen hundred a month to spend maybe four consecutive days, max, in between shoots, what’s the point of spending even more on another place? 

Hold up.

Back track.

Aubbie sent her a picture of someone not-Jensen.

In the middle of her suite, Nash holds and stares at the picture on her phone. She doesn’t keep up with tabloids, and tries to stay away from Hollywood because Lord knows Milan and New York are  _ enough _ , but she doesn’t live under a rock either. Jensen hasn’t crossed her mind in years, but she does remember recently coming across an article or two about him. 

And this face, she recognizes it.

She clicks through to the Variety article and it hits her—she’s worked with the photographer for this shoot before. Emile. Wow. Talk about a throwback. And Emile’s working with Anne? Will wonders never cease?

Now.

What’s this business about Jared Padalecki?

Reading through the article, Nash keeps mental notes. She laughs out loud at the line describing Donna as “the epitome of grace and warmth.” Yeah, okay,  _ sure _ . A necessary embellishment. 

Overall, the article is extremely different from what Anne typically writes. It lacks…  _ bite _ . Anne’s writing talent keeps it from being overly sweet and self-serving, however, it’s clear that the article served a purpose: introduce Jared to the big leagues. 

Nash would feel comfortable placing a bet that Jensen worked with Anne ahead of time to clarify that purpose. Now, did he do it with Jared’s knowledge or not? 

Marrying someone outside the industry, though… bold move.

She takes a seat in the living room and taps her phone against her chin.

It doesn’t take much to determine the nature of Drew’s obsession. That, she gets. What remains infinitely more important is what she plans to do about it. 

More research couldn’t hurt. 

With half an hour left to go until Vega insists on spa time, Nash turns on the television and sets up music to play through the suite’s bluetooth speakers. She chooses low-fi jazz from a random YouTube channel, then focuses her attention back to her phone.

In an incognito window, she starts with the most obvious and easiest Google search: 

_ Jensen Ackles Jared Padalecki. _

Tabloid shit and gossip sites come up instantly. She skips those, preferring to dig deeper, until she finds a video on a social media app posted by a fan. The video itself is somewhat new, posted just three days ago. Three other thirty-second videos follow this first one.

Nash plays the first video, set at a Mexican restaurant, with a room full of people. 

Standing beside Jared, Jensen thanks the room for attending their impromptu fundraiser for Austin’s LGBTQ Center. It’s a source of amusement for Nash to see Jensen at an event in a Cowboys t-shirt and faded jeans. He used to show up to every event overdressed for fear of being underdressed, overlooked, and dismissed. 

He proceeds to work the room like a natural, relaxed and unhurried. This is a talent Nash helped him refine. After a particularly harsh audition, she sat him down on the curb outside his apartment, held his hands, looked him square in the eyes, and told him:  _ Your face can only get you so far. _

There were thousands of other smiles very similar to his fighting for the same gig. Maybe he was used to his mother doing all the talking and negotiating for him. That had to end. Now. 

He had to figure out how to set himself apart  _ before _ the audition.

Otherwise, he might as well fly Donna out here and make her his manager again.

She shared her tips, observations, and strategies with him on that curb, at the laundromat, in bed, over breakfast, and in so many moments afterwards. Ultimately, it all boiled down to the importance of showing off a genuine smile or two, sincere eye contact, and appropriately-timed humor. He had it already, he just had to put it out there. 

It became The Jensen Effect.

Nash knows it well. 

Jared stands about an inch or two taller than Jensen. His eyes stay glued to Jensen. He laughs with the audience, waves to a few people, claps along with everyone else at the end of the speech, then leans in for a kiss to the cheek from Jensen.

Cute.

_ So far. _

Two young women take the mic from Jensen. They identify themselves as Center staff, thank Jensen and Jared for their work, and introduce the main event of the night: karaoke. 

For bids starting at one thousand dollars, members of the audience can help choose four songs—two each—for the couple to sing. The first video ends abruptly, the fan rushing to bid. Nash clicks on the second video, which picks up at the start of Jensen’s first song. 

“Love Gets Me Every Time” by Shania Twain blasts through the speakers on the stage. 

Jensen doesn’t even need to look at the words on the provided screen. He dances what Nash used to call his “Cheesy White Boy Dance,” and belts out the tune to a room full of strangers. 

_ “Life was goin’ great, love was gonna have to wait.  _

_ “Was in no hurry, had no worries.”  _

Jensen shakes his head and laughs. 

_ “Stayin’ single was the plan, didn’t need a steady man.  _

_ “I had it covered.  _

_ “‘Til I discovered.” _

He points a set of finger guns at Jared in the quick two seconds before the chorus. 

Cheesy? Yes. Someone might as well serve him on a plate next to sliced prosciutto and a glass of wine.

But no less enjoyable, really. 

He looks good. Healthy. Like he scaled back on the drinking, smoking, partying—and had a  _ moment _ . How much of that moment is because of the enraptured, floppy-haired individual seated at the table, who knows? Maybe it’s sustained because of that individual.

Jensen ramps up the charm and lets his drawl out, tantalizing mouth close to the mic.

_ “Must have been the way he walked, or that sweet, sweet talk.” _

He shimmies his hips for the instrumental break, chin up, straight faced, then dips back into the mic. 

_ “Love gets me every time, my heart changed my mind.”  _

He exaggerates fanning himself to cool down. 

_ “It’s in the way he calls my name. Uh huh.  _

_ “Well I gol’ darn gone and done it.”  _

Very cute. 

What a difference a decade makes in some people—good  _ and _ bad.

Nash allows the next video to auto-play. Jared gets on stage at the push of the crowd and the two women from before. He’s dressed very differently from Jensen, even though Jensen’s dressed the most casually she’s ever seen at any event. Jensen’s jeans  _ look _ to be Gucci, just old and lovingly worn.

Jared, on the other hand, sports a UT-Austin muscle tank and basketball shorts.

He dressed up a touch for the Vanity Fair shoot, but even then, the overall wardrobe choices in the shoot were tame.

_ Interesting.  _

“Y’all,” Jared says on stage, turning bright red. His drawl is thicker, more pronounced. Every bit of his body language projects his struggle with standing on the stage alone. “Y’all don’t even know.” 

Is that part of an act? How much is facade and how much is substance? 

Nash taps for the video to open in pop-up view and resumes more research while it plays. 

Jared very much needs the words on the screen to sing his rendition of, “That Don’t Impress Me Much.” Who requested the Shania theme? Probably not Jensen. He had listened to country in the car and on Nash’s stereo, but Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash country. 

For the first thirty seconds or so of the song, Jared reads the words. Nash braces herself for a repeat of that one scene in  _ My Best Friend’s Wedding _ , where Cameron Diaz’s character starts out her karaoke horribly enough to draw boos from the crowd.

But he’s not… horrible once he goes from reading to singing. 

A little rough, and it helps that he seems to actually know the words.

Nash pauses her research in time to watch a particular part. 

More comfortable now, Jared steps off stage, bopping to the beat. He holds the mic at an appropriate distance from his mouth to avoid distortion. Good. He imbibes a certain amount of playful teasing into the words as he walks up to Jensen. 

He thumps Jensen on the chest. 

_ “I never knew a guy who carried a mirror in his pocket _

_ “And a comb up his sleeve—just in case.”  _

The crowd responds well to this. Several folks reach out and pat Jensen on the shoulders. 

Jared keeps the momentum going right into the next line. 

_ “And all that extra hold gel in your hair oughta lock it.  _

_ “‘Cause Heaven forbid it should fall out of place.” _

He messes up Jensen’s carefully styled hair without hesitation and Jensen… Jensen goes with it.

Jensen hams it up. 

_ Very _ cute. 

The audience and Jensen erupt into laughter when Jared proclaims, 

_ “Okay, so you’re Brad Pitt? _

_ “That don’t impress me much.” _

Nash remembers the time she asked Jensen if his end goal was to be the next Brad Pitt. 

_ Fuck yes _ , Jensen had replied, lying next to her in bed.  _ I want it all. _

On the video, the fan managed to capture the kind of laugh from Jensen typically reserved for friends and family—the whole body, eye crinkling, bent over laugh. 

A text from Vega five minutes before the hour prompts Nash to land back on earth.

The spa offers sixty-minute European facials, Vega reports, but no coffee enemas. A true disappointment.

Nash kicks her ass into gear and changes into yoga pants and a simple, airy, button down blouse. She kicks off her pumps and opts for a pair of sandals that show off her coral-painted toes. Maybe there’s more merit to this spa time than she gave it credit for. 

It’ll give her time to think over Drew’s proposition and her reply.

How exactly does she want to play this?

Vega waits outside her door, now wearing a floral print dress, looking like she just stepped off a Zimmerman shoot. She pulled her hair into a strategically messy bun, highlighting the slope of her neck.

“Let me guess,” Nash says, with a smile. “We’re late.”

“Yes.” Vega leads the way to the bank of elevators, heels clacking on the floor. 

As they wait, Vega hands Nash a brand new shot glass, probably one from the mini bar in her own suite.

“Here,” she murmurs. She refrains from making eye contact, yet doesn’t pull out her phone as a distraction. “Maybe you drink wheatgrass later.” 

Momentarily confused by the gift, Nash holds it up for examination.

Her eyes widen at the sight of her name on the shot glass—written in Sharpie and in Vega’s blocky handwriting.

“It’s perfect,” Nash declares, cradling it in her hands. “Thank you.”

Vega nods and steps into the waiting elevator.

Nash follows. With care, she places the shot glass into her purse. 

“I would be your coffee enema buddy,” Nash offers.

“No, I decided not to book it.”

“Our loss is someone else’s latté.”

“What do you think about bee venom injections?”

“Ouch.”

“Red wine skin soak?”

“A waste.”

“Leeches?”

“Pass. Tarantulas, maybe.”

“That is an option,” Vega affirms. “I can book it for tomorrow.”

Outside again, Nash flips on her sunglasses. “Let’s start with non-tarantula options today and go from there.”

When they return later tonight, Nash plans on adding her new shot glass to the only other souvenir she owns with her name on it. It flies with her wherever she goes, currently tucked inside a hidden pocket in her carry-on.

Jensen knew about her quest to find a personalized trinket since their second date at a twenty-four hour diner called Canter’s in West Hollywood. 

It felt ridiculous at the time, telling him about her fight to find a personalized anything with her name that didn’t come from the actual city of Nashville. Over his pastrami sandwich and her matzo ball soup, he listened and showed enthusiasm for her quest as someone with similar complaints. The name Jensen, he shared, ain’t exactly on keychains either. 

She made a one-off joke about changing her name to Nashley, because she could always find “Ashley” on every spinner display anywhere, ever.

He had her in his phone as “Nashley” for the longest time.

Jensen gave her a gift the night before she flew out from LA to New York for a shoot—a flight that would be the beginning of many. Somehow, in the heart of Los Angeles, he found and bought Nash a New York City-themed personalized, rubber keychain.

With a great deal of attention to detail, he had penned in a giant N in front “Ashley.”

She’s older and wiser now. 

So, it makes sense for Nashley and Nashville to travel together in her carryon.

Climbing into the car, sitting next to Vega, Nash decides on her next course of action. 

She makes a quick phone call to  _ People _ .

**Author's Note:**

> hellooooo! i'm so happy to bring you something new and something to add to the Photo Op Verse! a hearty thank you to beta K and C for their help on this one.
> 
> with the wrap on filming for SPN, i just wanna say thank you so much for being here. getting into SPN and the fandom was/has been/continues to be life changing. i first got into fandom when i was couch surfing/sleeping on the floor of a friend's home in 2011. for two years, i watched the show and devoured fic, until 2013, when i started posting here on AO3. it's been a helluva ride since then and it's gonna continue on. fandom doesn't end with the show. <3
> 
> i looooved dipping into a different POV to introduce Nashville, who will be a big character in the next Photo Op installment aka The Wedding. i hope you've enjoyed a brief dive back into Photo Op with the knowledge that more is on the horizon. thank you again. sending y'all a lot of love. 
> 
> catch me at: compo67.tumblr.com


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